


Plucking the Strings

by Notaricon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Demonic Possession, Double Penetration, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Kink Meme, M/M, Magic, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Partial Mind Control, Possession, Psychological Torture, Rimming, The Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-30
Updated: 2011-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:32:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notaricon/pseuds/Notaricon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It is in the dark and the silence that we lose ourselves. It is into the alcoves of our own minds that we disappear.</i>
</p><p>Anders pines. Justice disapproves. Shenanigans occur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plucking the Strings

**Author's Note:**

> Initially, a fill for a kink_meme prompt. The kink_meme, kids: it will make a fanfic author of you.
> 
> An unnamed phallic object makes a brief appearance, herein. It's probably a tuber.

It is in the dark and the silence that we lose ourselves. It is into the alcoves of our own minds that we disappear.

The glint of those eyes had done him in. _Maker, how clichéd_ \-- but he couldn’t wring the thought of them from his head. All those times he’d looked into them and seen it, buried under the hot, bright, laughing gold: the weariness all but shrouding the hard, burning kernel of strength that spurred him on; that made him the champion he’d become. The way he let his head fall, those times he thought no one could see.

In the flush of battle, he’d begun to drift close, his finer senses trained on the hiss and pull of the man’s magic, opening his skin to the eldrich, electric itch of it. It tasted of pale, sour wine and storm-thick skies -- so many times he’d lost himself to the tang of salt and blood and lightening, deaf to the broken screams his own power tore from his blistered throat, every nerve in him bright and alive. So many times, he’d woken to the strained silence of battle’s end, that cold, blue, _inhuman_ part of him swirling out of his conscious mind like a sucking tide, rumbling with disapproval, his whole body aching with want.

And _Andraste save him_ , but the man was a tease; purring sweet and soft into the ear of any lovely young thing that passed his way. And those less than lovely; those not so young – seeking to pull a blush or a stammer from those who threatened to pierce his armoured layers. Anders recognized it for the desperate shield it was. Some days, he even remembered what it was like to relish the glazed confusion of a baffled dupe who’d forgotten how to pry in the face of soft laughter and slow-burn charm.

They’d stood under the dirty light of an Undercity night, and he’d watched that wry mouth flirt with the idea of a sensuous smile. Watched as it began to bloom, as his lips began to part, the low growl of some well-prepared suggestive remark already rumbling up from his chest, and—

 _Three years._ So many countless nights spent bowstring tight against a sagging cot, watching dust on the air and clenching his fists until his nails broke the skin of his palms, nothing but the drumming rush of blood and the ragged sound of his own breath to break the silence. He’d taken the man’s brutally tempting mouth before his overcrowded mind could steel him against the want. Up against a filthy sewer wall, he’d knotted his fingers through that flyaway hair and sucked that clever tongue and plied and supplicated with teeth and lips and the frantic scrabbling of fingers until all he could hear was the splintered shock of gasping breath on the air and soft, pleading cries against the dark.

He supposed it was better that he’d asked about the elf. Seen the dark flair of pain in the man’s eyes and known the impossibility of staying; even there, at the foot of his bed, all that was human in him wanting nothing but to taste the salt of his skin and – _oh. Oh, Maker’s breath._

It was gone. The moment he cradled in his mind long grown cold as he desperately, jerkily plied his own hard flesh. He could feel it already; like clotting milk, some part of him pulling back, stepping away from the mess in his head to turn a critical eye on yet another pointlessly human waste of time and effort and self. He waited for the cleansing, righteous burn to crack his skin; waited for it to still his hands and body such that he could not even writhe against its vice-like hold on him, until the throbbing, untended heat in his loins died, and he could continue his work.

He was never fully prepared for it; even now, knowing it would come, he choked against the cold flood that spiralled up from some strange pit in him. The chill smell of pale, dry wood teased him. It was always like this; a rolling galvanic wave of alien thought and form his straining mind paired with words like _mint; snap; embers_ – a twinge of pain, and his will was severed from his body, and this time, Justice, freedom, the world be damned, he let himself sob his frustration into the dark, even as sparks of wyrding light filled his eyes.

With curious fingers, that other part of him picked through the whirlwind chaos of his thoughts; he felt his own lips drawing up in an acrid curl, something inside him cataloguing what it found: obsession; distraction. His hands rose unbidden, fingers curling and uncurling like the scything talons of a beast, as what remained of Justice puzzled over the memory freshest in his mind – the meeting of flesh, sweat and tongue and pulse. A querulous shiver of annoyance not entirely his own shot through him. He could almost hear the howling of Fade winds, somewhere far out of sight. His skin was too hot; everything was too hot. Trapped inside the husk of his traitorous body, he roiled against the febrile want which refused to leave him. He could not release it, not while the spirit plucked, over and again, at that memory, making it hum like lute-strings.

For one mad moment, he thought himself elsewhere, laying against parched, cracked earth, a faceless figure looming over him, wreathed by worming light. The spirit plucked the memory again, and he felt those smirking, generous lips pliant against his own, and prayed for this strange new torture to end. Uncomprehending, it would leave him burning and demented, no release in sight. He drew tight against it, back arching up and away from the rough bedding beneath him. _Flesh. Shivering, useless flesh._

And then, everything was still. He tasted steel and blood. Sweat steamed and pooled on his quivering, naked belly. If he could just close his mind to the throbbing of his member, perhaps, now, he could rest. Tomorrow, he could put all this aside. He nearly thought nothing of it, when his hands drifted to slick the cooling sweat from his skin. Karl had done that once, he remembered; when they were young and awkwardly tangled together, muffling each other’s laughter with wet, open kisses. He’d not thought of it in so long. Strange, that it should come to him now. The memory flickered away, replaced by another, and another, and Anders’ guts went cold. Quick, messy trysts against splintering bookshelves. Stuffy air and hot breath. So many faces. The prickle of fingertips skimming along his swollen length wrung a strangled scream from him. _Maker, no._

The fingers that circled him were not his own, for all that they were of his body. He keened as they milked him, his voice a broken plea; for what, he could not say. Something inside him rumbled in response; a thunderhead, swelling and vindictive against an evening sky. Power arced beneath his skin, sizzling to life in his mutinous palms, and rational thought fled him. It pulsed through his shaft, jittering up along his belly as spectral, forking fingers, each burst pushing him, roughly, into a memory. Countless battles nearly lost, because he’d lost himself to the intoxicating taste of that wickedly beautiful man’s magic. Justice, it seemed, had been keeping count.

In a half-dream, a hard mouth took him. His body’s hands pulled and twisted and teased. Kneaded and scorched and punished. Twitching and helpless, he came in shuddering spurts, delirious, bolts of magic drawing his muscles snapping-tight. He recognized the long, low moan buzzing in his ears as his; his voice, bubbling past swollen lips. _Oh, Maker. Maker –_

He was on his knees in the dust, under that same, strange, undulating light. Cool magic washed over him; the fresh-grass sapour of a rejuvenation. It was his own power, but he hadn’t called it. He sat, dumb and dizzy, on his heels, seed slicking his belly, his softening cock still alive with that dull, insistent ache. This place smelled of the Fade. Dimly, he was aware of his body, kneeling in the Darktown grime that pervaded his spare little room.

Gauntleted spirit-fingers gripped his hair; something steely knelt behind him, and what he saw of it when it jerked his head back and claimed his mouth was dark and veined with luminescence in a shifting colour he could find no name for but _frigid; unbending; immediate._ Its kiss was slow, deliberate and brutal, and he found himself surrendering to the merciless workings of that mouth; to the hot, wet slide of firm lips and tongue along his jaw and the straining tendons of his neck. It left red welts as it sucked and bit a path down along the column of his spine, pressing him belly-flat to the dust below. In the world, he could feel rough cotton against his cheek, his own fingers mindfully probing the cleft of his buttocks.

Anders might have had the presence of mind to beg (for freedom, for an end, for answers, _for more_ ), before those steel-tipped fingers began to mimic the motions of his body’s hands. Before that strangely chill tongue plunged into him, following the same slow, hard rhythm it had used to ply his mouth. Armoured hands left raised, pink lines on his skin – more hands than one man should have. This, though. This was hardly a man, he supposed. He ground back against the mouth working him, groaning into the dust when it stopped. Even as something thick and hard pressed into him, fingers knotted in his hair again, lifting his drooping head. His body had something in its hands, he thought. His mouth was on it. And here, as well; something nudged his lips. He lost himself to the pounding, unwavering rhythm. He opened his mouth and lost himself to the ache it planted in deep places he hadn’t known he had.

There is no time, in the Fade. Anders sucked desperately at the hot hardness in his mouth, lips flush and wet. He strained, swollen again, and tight against a climax he began to think would not come. Something low in his belly snapped taut. With one last broken, stoppered groan, he boiled over, and the world, like a veil, was torn away.

In the dark of his empty room, he choked against a heavy silence, his own hands wringing what last few spasms of tortured pleasure they could from his spent body, before it was allowed to slump against his soiled linens.

Watching his breath feather through the gloom like smoke, he found he couldn’t think anything at all.


End file.
